


The Red Room

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)
Genre: Accidental Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, he's had a lot of bad fuckin' surprises, but <i>this?</i> This takes the goddamn cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Room

She might be the prettiest goddamn thing he’s ever seen- and he was married to a supermodel. Golden blonde hair, low-cut dress, and don’t even get him started on her body. Holy  _ shit _ . And this chick, spots him across the club- and he’s a little washed up by his age, yeah, but he still talks like money, and he can still get a menage together if he  _ really _ wants to- sees him wink, and she just rolls her eyes. Okay, fine, some people don’t dig the silver fox he’s getting to be, their loss. He’s surrounded by whores that’ll do blow for a fifty.

Jordan Belfort used to fuck blue chip hookers, 700 a pop if you tipped ‘em like he did, and now some stripper’s trying to close him on a lap dance when the best selling point is that it’s “only twenty bucks!”

He throws back what’s left of his beer- non-alcoholic, but he keeps catching himself expecting a kick. When he turns, he’s completely planning to tell her she’s wasting time, but he almost misses the body glitter, because her face sparkles on its own. Jordan has to lean into her ear because he hasn’t found that volume over the music but under the attention of everyone else in the goddamn room. “You’re real cute, you know.”

She grins, cheeky. “Thanks!”

It wasn’t a compliment as much as a lead-in. He leads in. “You’re way underselling. Makes people think the product’s inferior.”

She raises her eyebrows as she touches his arm; tiny thing, he could throw her around like a fucking ragdoll- and he’s not as strong as he used to be. Lost the personal trainer, got a gym membership, like everybody else. Ouch.

Then she goes and drives the fucking knife home. “You a car salesman?”

She’s not stripping to pay through college, that’s for fuckin’ sure. He waves the bottle girl for another beer, and really has to fight himself not to make that a bloody mary. After he’s fumed over his shoulder, he forces a smile. “Stockbroker.”

He’s not really- not anymore, but he still hasn’t figured out how to concisely describe “touring the globe selling self-help to schmucks since he  _ legally _ can’t be a stockbroker.” She’s a fucking stripper, anyway; she won’t know the difference.

“Really?” Her palm relocates to his thigh. “What’s good?”

His face goes red trying not to laugh. Like  _ she’s _ gonna invest! The waitress brings him a bottle, and as he takes it, he’d swear the blonde’s eyeing him again. When he glances back, she’s not even facing this way. He takes a drag. “Come on, I get paid for that advice!”

She shrugs coyly as she shuffles into his lap, and he wishes he would have met her back in Long Island, because a face like that- and that push-up bra,  _ hello _ \- would have been real popular at Stratton-Oakmont. But, if he’s gonna pay to get blue balls, it’ll be from one of the top-shelf girls: forty bucks, at least.

When you spend as much time in titty bars as Jordan has, you learn that strippers have a pecking order. Seasoned girls can pick out the fattest tippers and work them dry, while everyone else makes the rounds at whatever’s left. He’s seen newbies dragged off guys by the hair when the wallet comes out. Once he threw ten Gs down for whoever could stay on his lap the longest. One girl lost a weave, two had to get stitches, and the ground was littered in fake nails.

He’s not surprised when some tall, skinny bitch walks up and says, “Move.” Neither is the greenhorn- but she’s a lot more disappointed than he is- especially when he sees who it is.

“So you  _ were _ checkin’ me out.” he notes while blondie lights down in his lap, legs crossed over one of his knees, arms around his neck from the other side. He keeps his arms on the back of the booth.

“Oh, I’ve had my eye on you for a  _ long _ time,” she smells like roses when she leans in, “Jordan Belfort.”

So she didn’t just come running at the word “stockbroker” like he yelled, “free coke.” Ever since prison, he thinks first in worst case scenarios: did he fuck her over, did he fuck over someone she knows, did he  _ fuck _ her? She doesn’t look old enough to remember Stratton-Oakmont, and her face is coy as ever while he’s having a fucking panic attack. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Long black lashes flutter; they’ve gotta be fake. “You can call me Ky.”

Doesn’t ring a bell. First thing that pops into his head is Kyle, but she’s young enough to be one of those new-age names, like Kylan or Kylie or some shit. Stage name is right out, because those heels aren’t nearly high enough, and that dress- though skin-tight- has way too much fabric for her to be a stripper in this shithole. Hey, if she doesn’t work here, he’s not gonna get kicked out for touching. He starts with her tight waist. “Where do you know me from, Ky?”

She slides his hand down to her hip, and he slinks it down her leg until his fingertips peek under her dress. She bites a glossy pink lip. “Oh, here and there. Read your book, saw the movie. Went to a couple Straight-Line seminars. I did my research.”

If you flaunt as much cash as Jordan used to, you attract three kinds of girls:

The first kind wants to work for you, so assistants, hookers- anything they can do for your money. 

The second wants to win you- gorgeous women with credentials- real girlfriend material, and they know it. 

The third kind wants  _ you _ to work for  _ them _ . Sugar babies.

Sugar babies are professional arm candy, drop-dead gorgeous women even Playboy centrefolds can’t compete with. They’re charming socialites that’ll hang off your every word and inflate your ego like a fucking hot air balloon. They’ll laugh at all your jokes, but at the end of the day, you love them, and they love your money.

Ky talks like a sugar baby. She’s immaculate, unflappable, and the biggest giveaway: she’s done “research.” If a sugar baby’s smiling back, she already has your full name and net worth. Which is why Ky can’t be a sugar baby, because although Jordan has enough Straight-Line income to live comfortably in Manhattan Beach, he still owes 100 million in restitutions. Any baby worth her sugar runs- as fast as she can in Louboutins- from negative signs.

Ky shifts, ass cheek grazing his cock, maybe intentionally, maybe not. She has his attention either way. “Let’s go somewhere private, huh daddy? Get to know each other?”

It’s been a long time since he’s been called that; not since Naomi would baby-talk him in case Skylar was in earshot. With the attempted kidnapping, and domestic violence accusations, and the prison, of course he didn’t get visitation. He hasn’t seen his daughter in... Fuck. Sixteen years?

He’s not about to imagine what his fucking daughter looks like (sober, while Ky’s pulling him by the hand,  _ ever _ ) so he focuses on the sway of her ass. Smacks it with the hand she lets go of, and she glares injection needles. Jordan puts his hands up in mock-innocence, and Ky parts the curtains to the Red Room. Technically not supposed to be in there without a stripper, but between an obvious businessman that holds himself better than his paycheck and a hot chick, the bouncer doesn’t give them a second glance. It wouldn’t be anywhere near the first Jordan was kicked out of a strip club, anyway- but it  _ would _ be the first time it had nothing to do with substance abuse. 

Ky’s got shit bedroom eyes- looks more angry than anything- but Jordan’s used to picturing other people while he gets off these days, anyway. Goddamn shame; she’s got a rockin’ body- great face, too, if she’d quit fucking it up.

There’s a hot chick staring at him expectantly, and Jordan Belfort can’t get a single sentence together. He’s got a hard sell, but that’s talking to people like dollar signs, or tape recorders; he can’t talk to them like people without five different chemicals swirling around his bloodstream. He talks best when he can barely think. Sloshed, at  _ least _ .

Ky rolls her eyes, and comes in close, manicured hand sliding around the back of his neck. She’s taller than him- in those heels, anyway- and it’s not fucking fair. “Do you wanna know my real name, daddy?”

Jordan cups her ass, and like a good businessman, tells her what she wants to hear. “Of course, baby.”

She puts her other hand on the other side of his neck, and her breath tingles on his ear as she whispers, “Skylar.”

It hits him, deep inside, but he’s not about to fucking lose this chick. “I like that name.”

“I know. You gave it to me.”

...

Fuck. 

“Fuck.” 

Oh,  _ fuck! _

“Oh,  _ fuck! _ ”

As if it wasn’t a thought he had every day of his goddamn life, Jordan Belfort needs a drink.


End file.
